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IN PRIMROSE TT 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS. 

^^i* ©opijriQl^t 1?0. 



UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 



IN PRIMROSE TIME 



IN PRIMROSE TIME 



il (Uew 3tt06 (Barfanl) 



BY / 

SARAH M. Br PIATT 

AUTHOR OF 'a voyage TO THE FORTUNATE ISLES, 
' AN IRISH GARLAND,' ETC. 



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BOSTON 

HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO. 

NEW YORK : ii EAST SEVENTEENTH STREET 

iS86 






Copyright, 1SS6, 
By HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO. 



CONTENTS. 



-In Primrose Time, 

The Awakening of the Birds, 

A Portrait at Youghal, 

An Irish Fairy Story, 

An Emigrant Singing from a Ship, 

A Party in a Dream, 

Two Innocents Abroad, 
-Bird's-Nesting in Ireland, . 

The Legend of Monkstown, 

In St. Mary's Church, 

The Ivy of Ireland, 

One Happy Woman, . 







PAGE 

9 






15 






21 






25 






31 






35 






39 






45 






51 






57 






63 






67 



IN PRIMROSE TIME. 



^^^p^ 



IN PRIMEOSE TIME.1 



(early spring in IRELAND. ) 



Here 's the lodge-woman in her great cloak coming, 

And her white cap. AVhat joy 
Has touched the ash-man ? On my word he 's hum- 



A boy's song, like a boy ! 
He quite forgets his cart. His donkey grazes 

Just where it likes the grass. 
The red-coat soldier, with his medal, raises 

His hat to all who pass ; 
And that blue-jacket sailor, — hear him whistle, 

Forgetting Ireland's ills ! 

B 9 



10 IN PRIMROSE TIME. 

Oh, pleasant land — (who thiiiks of thorn or thistle ?) 

Upon your happy hills 
The world is out ! And, faith, if I mistake not, 

The world is in its prime 
(Beating for once, I think, with hearts that ache not) 

Tn Primrose time. 



II. 



Against the sea-wall leans the Irish beauty, 

"With face and hands in bloom. 
Thinking of anything but household duty 

In her thatched cabin's gloom ; — 
"Watching the ships as leisurely as may be, 

Her blue eyes dream for hours. 
Hush ! There 's her mother — coming with the baby 

In the fair quest of flowers. 
And her grandmother ! — hear her laugh and chatter, 

Under her hair frost-white ! 
Believe me, life can be a merry matter, 

And common folk polite. 
And all the birds of heaven arc of a feather. 

And all their voices rhyme, — 
They sing their many songs, like one, together, 

Til Pi-imrose time. 



IN PRIMROSE TIME. 1 1 

III. 

The magpies ti.y in pairs (an evil omen 

It were to see but one) ; 
The snakes — but here, though, since St. Patrick, no 
man 

Has seen them in the sun ; 
The white lamb thinks the black lamb is his brother, 

And half as good as he ; 
The rival car-men all love one another, 

And jest, right cheerily ; 
The compliments among the milk-men savour 

Of pale gold blossoming ; 
And everybody wears the lovely favour 

Of our sweet Lady Spring. 
And though the ribbons in a bright procession 

Go towards the Chapel's chime, — 
Good priest, there be but few sins for confession, 

In Primrose time. 

IV. 

Now all the children in this isle of faery 

Whisper and laugh and peep. 
(Hush, pretty babblers ! Little feet, be wary. 

You '11 scare them in their sleep, — 



12 IN PRIMROSE TIME. 

The wee, weird people of the dew, who wither 

Out of the sun, and lie 
Curled in the wet leaves, till the mooncomes hither. )- 

The new-made butterfly 
Forgets he was a worm. The ghostly castle, 

On its lone rock and grey, 
Cares not a whit for either lord or vassal 

Gone on their dusty way. 
But listens to the bee, on errands sunny. — 

A thousand years of crime 
May all be melted in a drop of honey 

In Primrose time 1 



THE AWAKENING OF THE BIRDS 



THE AWAKENING OF THE BIEDS. 

AT MONKSTOWN CASTLE, COUNTY CORK. 

I KNOW a ruin, on a hill — 

Like other ruins, it may be. 
It must be tired of standing still 

And always looking at the sea. 

So old that I am young by it, 

It tells me tales of monk and knight — 
Tales that no chronicler hath writ ; 

Just as my great-grandmother might. 

It likes to talk of silken train, 

Of jewelled sword and plumed head, 

And quite forgets how low the rain 
Has beaten down its courtly dead. 

It told mc, with a gracious air, 
About Elizabeth's best gown, 

But when I spoke of her red hair 
And painted nose, I saw it frown ! 



16 THE AWAKENING OF THE BIRDS. 

It has invited me to sit 

Till after dark. But, then, it 's clear, 
Somehow Oh, I don't care a whit 

For Things you cannot see or hear ! 

But, children, though this ruin might 
Not be the place to sleep, you see, 

At morning it 's the prettiest sight 
In all this pretty world to me. 

For when, like one that 's slept too long. 
The sudden sun before me springs, 

Ivy and stone break into song. 

And hall and battlement take wings ! 

The lords of earth lie still down there ; — 
They have their night, who had their daj'. 

See, in their place, the lords of air 
Make merry with their honours grey. 

From mullioned windows they peep out, 
In families, or in lover-pairs ; 

On the high walls they walk about 
And chatter of their sweet aflairs. 



THE AWAKENING OF THE BIRDS. 17 

Sir Something, gone from graveyard fame, 
• God rest you under flower and dew ! 
The wind has blown away your name. 
But, in my heart, I reverence you. 

Oh, you were good to build (too good 
For me to set your praise in words) 

So brave a castle by the wood 
To be the happy home of birds ! 



A PORTRAIT AT YOUGHAL 



A PORTRAIT AT YOUGHAL.2 

There at the inn, he looked at me. 

A flash of fire died on the wall. 
Without, the broken-hearted sea 

Beat in the moon at Youghal. 

Still as a god's were those deep eyes. 
And empty as a god's of tears, 

That showed nor pity nor surprise 
After three hundred years. 

I felt that one pale flower's sharp scent 
There at the window like a knife, 

What time the dead man seemed content 
To watch the passion of life. 

Another flash of fire. And so 

They 've given us a haunted room : 

The knight there in the dusk bowed low— 
Or the wind waved his plume ! 



21 



22 A PORTRAIT AT YOUGIIAL. 

. . . But what is this ? — The maid with tea. 

(It may be she has heard the name 
This dark immortal wore while he 

Walked in the world's brief fame.) 

"Who is it— that old portrait— there ?" 
She held the lamp close to the wall, 

And told us, with a Httle stare, 
"He was — the Mayor of Youghal." 



AN IRISH FAIRY STORY 



AN IRISH FAIRY STORY. 

"Good mother, from your wayside hut, 

Wise with your ninety years. 
Tell me a fairy story — but 

First wring out all the tears ; 
For I am hurt beyond the skill 

Of leech, hurt with a knife 
That seems, in sooth, but slow to kill — 

Good mother, hurt with Hf e ! " 

" My lady, sure you are but sad, — 

Yet it 's a merry day, 
I 'm not too wrinkled to be glad 

(And you are not yet grey). 
It 's long, long yet I hope to live. 

For God is good, I 'm told. 
And life 's the best He has to give ; 

I 'm thankful to be old. 
D 



25 



26 AN IRISH FAIRY STORY. 

" Yes, God is good, I 'm told. You see, 

I cannot read. But, then, 
I can believe. He 's good to me, 

He is, and good to men. 
The}'' say He sends us sorrow, too. 

The world would be too sweet 
To leave, if this should not be true." 

— ("The Avorld the moth can eat.") 

*' He keeps my little cabin there 

Safe when the sea-wind blows. 
When I was young He let me wear 

Upon my cheeks a rose ; 
And then it was He sent a youth, — 

The handsomest, you 'd own, 
On all the Irish coast. ... In truth 

It 's much I 've lived alone, 

"My lady, since that long black night 

His fishing boat went down. — 
My boy that kept my heart so light 

Had work there in the town ; 
A lovely boy ! — such gold-like hair. 

All curls ! " (Her eyes grew dim.) 
" Christ keep him ! He is quiet there 

With daisies over him." 



AN IRISH FAIRY STORY. 27 

She hushed and turned to go inside. 

— An earthen floor, ah me ! 
A heap of straw (the door was wide) 

Was all that I could see. 
Yet on the little window, low, 

A bright geranium grew ; 
"That's for my boy, he loved them so, — 

He loved these thrushes, too." 

" Good mother " " Sure but things go ill 

In our poor country. Yet 
He gives me bread and shelter still, — 

It 's me He '11 not forget." 
We parted, for the light was low ; 

I turned and looked around : — 
Lord of us all, can heart's-ease grow 

In such a plot of ground 1 



AN EMIGRANT SINGING FROM 
A SHIP 



AN EMIGRANT SINGING FEOM A SHIP. 

Sing on ; but there be heavy seas between 

The shores you leave and those 
Toward which you sail. Look back, and sec how 
green, 

How green the shamrock grows ; 
How fond your rocks and ruins toward you lean ; 

How bright the thistle blows. 

How red the Irish rose ! 

He waves his cap, and, with a sorry jest, 



Flies singing like a bird 
That is right glad to leave its island nest. 

I wonder if he heard. 
What time he kissed his hand back to the rest, 

The cry, till then deferred. 

The mother's low, last word. 

31 



32 AN EMIGRANT SINGING FROM A SHIP. 

Boy-exile, youth is light of heart, I ween ; 

And fairy-tales come true, 
Sometimes, perhaps, in lands we have not seen. 

Sing on ; the sky is blue. 
Sing on (I wonder what your wild words mean) ;- 

May blossoms strange and new 

Drift out to welcome you ! 

Sing on. The world is wide, the world is fair, 

Life may be sweet and long. 
Sing toward the Happy West — yet have a care 

Lest Ariel join your song ! 
(You loved the chapel-bell, you know a prayer 1) 

If winds should will you wrong, 

God's house is builded strong ! 

Sing on, and sec how golden grain can grow, 

How golden tree and vine. 
In our great woods ; how apple-buds can blow, 

And robins chirp and shine. 
And — in my country may you never know. 

Ah me ! for yours to pine. 

As I, in yours, for mine. 



A PARTY IN A DREAM 



A PARTY IN A DEEAM. 

Strange, after five-and-twenty years, to keep 
A tryst, made, somehow, in the shadow of sleep I 

In the sad island-moon, here by the sea. 
What still ship landed such a company ? 

Now, that I think, some of the girls Avore white 
With flowers. — Ah me, my heart! as well they might! 

The boys — but, surely, long ago I read 
That one in battle drooped his shining head. 

And one, they said, had vanished through the sand, 
A home-sick alien, in a palmy land. 

One laughing, whispered : " After such a night 
We shall not look well in the morning light ; 



36 A PARTY IN A DREAM. 

"The boys would say but it is time to go ;" 

And suddenly the cock began to crow. 

" So, I, the only living one," I said, 

" At dead of nisiht have entertained the dead." 



TWO INNOCENTS ABROAD 



TWO INNOCENTS ABROAD. 

ON CORONATION DAY, JUNE 1884. 

Then all at once the loyal cannon spoke 

Across the hazy, old-world terraced town, 
In bloom with British flags, — where dust and smoke 
Have settled down. 

Toward Camden and Spike Island looking out, 
Two children in the foreign sun lay curled : 
" Oh listen, will you ? What's the noise about ? 
It shakes the world." 

" The world don't mind it very much, I 'd say, — 

It doesn't sound much louder than a bee ! 
Why, I can hardly hear it. Any way, 
It don't shake me ! " 

"I'll tell you now, just what it all must mean," 
Said little six-years-old ; "I think it's — War." 
" No, it 's — the English, for their gracious Queen 
And Governor ! 



40 TWO INNOCENTS ABROAD. 

"This is the very day she first put on 

The crown. And, if the Irish like or not, 
Somebody 's got to wear it till it 's gone, 
And that is what ! " 



"Well, what day did the President, you know, 

Put on his crown 1 " " To hear you talk like that! 
The President 's a gentleman — and so 
He wears a hat. 



" You know the crown. We saw it in the Tower." 

"But was it gold, or only shining brass " 

"(We had to look at it for half an-hour !) " 

" And painted glass 1 " 

" The glass was only diamonds. But the gold 
Is sure enough. And it M'ou't do to touch." 
" It 's shut up in a cage." " It is so old 
It can't stand much ! " 

" I wish the President wore one." " He dare 

Not." "But, it 's prettier than a hat." 
" You don't think any man alive would wear 
A thing like that ! 



TWO INNOCENTS ABROAD. 41 

" The Queen 's a lady. Don't you know that yet ? " 

" I 'd think that even the English wouldn't care 
To have a lady for the Queen ! I 'd get 
A man — somewhere ! " 

" The men are all in Egypt ! (I suppose 

The English think they know what they're about.) 
And General Gordon 's — where nobody knows, 
And can't get out ! " 



BIRD'S-NESTING IN IRELAND 



BIRD'S-NESTING IN IRELAND. 

This is the time, and all the birds are flying 

Upon the old, old quest; — 
If there is one thing left on earth worth trying, 

It is to make a nest. 

This is the time (ah, there is promise in it !) 

Had I my choice of things 
Worth holding high, I 'd answer in a minute : 

" Good Mother, give me wings." 

(On last year's broken bough the frost may glisten 

They do not care a whit. 
They turn their heads, and chirp, as loth to listen, 

" Pray do not mention it ! ") 

This is the time by birds beloved and dreaded, 

When all their curious joys 
Are at the mercy of this curly-headed 

Mad brood of climbing boys. 

45 



46 bird's-nesting IX IRELAND. 

From the black thatch of wayskle huts rain-beaten, 

Under the bright roof-tiowers, 
They break at morning into this moth-eaten, 

Wind-shaken world of ours. 

They leave the lodge, they leave the mansion hidden 

By dark-leaved feudal walls ; — 
The little landlord, toward the tree forbidden, 

Through his great gateway crawls. 

The high-born crow in perilous far places. 

Proud, with ancestral caws. 
Sees in his family-tree the mocking faces 

And hands that hold no laws. 

The lark, which knows that music fit for heaven 

Is nursed upon the ground, 
Is in a flutter lest some hint be given 

And her low covert found. 

The thrush, deep in the laurel's fair green glitter. 

Hides well her house — in vain. 
The Bible sparrow, with her world-old twitter, 

Learns that she can complain. 



BIKD S-NESTING IN IRELAND. 4 

The linnet thinks, out of the honey-scented 

Gold-flowering of the furze, 
No being of the air has yet lamented 

Misfortune like to hers. 

The robin in her wall of stone, grown over 

With immemorial vines, 
Hears the foe's footstep coming through the clover, 

And her bright bosom pines. 

The wren, beside the waters where the falling 

Blooms of the. briar-rose float, 
Breast-deep in folds of island moss, is calling 

With an upbraiding note. 

The owl in her black battlement is shaken ; 

Out of the mould she flies. 
The gull's sea-castle in the rocks is taken — 

The foam is cut with cries. 

The cuckoo, that elusive cheat and lonely, 

(That must be heard, not seen !) 
In trouble for some other bird's nest only, 

Fares likes the rest, I ween. 



48 bird's-nesting in IRELAND. 

And when the rosj^ veteran's tearful mother 

Hears his dark story through, 
He says : " The birds had better build another ; 

They've nothing else to do." 



THE LEGEND OF MONKSTOWN 



THE LEGEND OF MONKSTOWN. 

COUNTY CORK. 

I SAY it is not haunted, though ; — 

I saw it all with fearless eyes, 
Not quite three hundred years ago, 

While waiting for the moon to rise. 
Hedge-roses to the winds talked low, 

When suddenly here, a man in mail 

Sprang from his panting horse, and leant 

Against his sword. With wonder pale, 
He stared at roof and battlement, — 

And breathed as if his breath would fail. 

He was, of course, a handsome knight 
(Sir Anything-you-please was he) ! 

His brow was slightly scarred with fight 
And stained with Spanish suns ; for he 

Had passed through — veils and fans, this wight. 



52 THE LEGEND OF MONKSTOWN. 

Ill truth he 'd sailed with Francis Drake 
To singe King Philip's beard But, no ; 

He was not born then ! I mistake. 
He fought for Philip, — that is so, — 

And now came home, his ease to take. 



How came this castle in his way 1 
Was that Aladdin's lamp which she 

Held at the window, whose weird ray 
Had raised this wonder ? Could it be 

Ai'abian Night that round him lay ? 



There was a cry, a kiss, a smile. 

With fancies dim his brain was filled. 
. . . Was this his own heroic isle, 

Or evil ground 1 — would fairies build 
In that Elizabethan style ? 



"Marry ! " (for that 's the thing they said 
In Shakspearc's time and his) he cried, 

" It doth appear thvat I am dead ! 
This pleaseth me but ill — beside 

Here in the grass the rose is red. 



THE LEGEND OF MONKSTOWN. 53 

"There's nothing pale here, — even the moon 

Hath a fine colour, and the tree 
Is green, as with the leaf of June. 

A right good world it seemeth me ! 
But I have fasted since the noon. 



" Beshrew me ! but thou 'It crush my plume, 
Fair ghost, with thy white winding arm ! " 

The lady with the island bloom, 

Nursed by the sea-foam, in her charm. 

Sobbed out : "I did it — where 's the harm 1 



" I built that castle there for thee 
(To give my lord a brave surprise) 

With eggs and butter ! But, ah me ! 

They— did— not— quite— pay— all ! " Her 
eyes 

Dropped ready for the tears, you see. 

" Only a groat besides — Confess 

I built the castle for a groat ! " 
Dark frowned the knight at her distress. 

Then shouted from his trumpet throat : 
" It might have cost thee somewhat less ! " 



IN ST. MARY'S CHURCH 



IN ST. MARY'S CHUECH. 

AT YOUGHAL, COUNTY CORK. 

We left the sun and all the green 
Late leaves, and birds that sing between 
The sky and this sad island's last 
Loth flowers, and walked into the Past, 
With beating hearts almost afraid 
To stir the dust the ages made. 

Down the still aisles the tapers gleamed. 
The dead lay on their tombs and dreamed, 
Through their long sleep of stone, forlorn, 
Of that sweet world where they were born, 
Where love and war and lands aitd sold 
Made life a pleasant thing to hold. 



&^ 



At first, it did not seem quite clear 

If Christ, the Lord, were worshipped here. 

Or if the lion, or the bull ! 

(The solemn place had grown so full 

Of images of these, to show 

The pride dark in the vaults below.) 

H 57 



58 IN ST. MARY'S CHURCH. 

There were the statues of rude days, 
Recalling, in pathetic ways, 
The art of people dear to me. 
At rest beyond the restless sea, 
My neighbours, who some years ago, 
Builded the mounds in Mexico. 

In this last stronghold of the knights. 
By the great window's lonesome lights. 
From which the eternal Irish rains 
Could never steal away the stains, 
I read on everything, ah me ! 
The Hebrew king's worn homily. 

" Here lies Sir Edward Villiers." There 

His death-still banner fades in air. 

Just opposite, in dreary state, 

The Earl of Cork, surnamed the Great, 

With check in palm and fierce fixed eyes. 

Much trimmed with yellowing ermine, lies. 

Below the Earl, right stately, stand 
Two Countesses who shared his hand 
(In family love and face to face !) 
Above, his mother, in her place, 
In rose-pink train, plumed hat and ruff. 
Holding a skull, looks odd enough. 



IN ST. MARY'S CHURCH. 59 

Here sleeps a Spanish Don, who came 

In the Armada. (What 's his name 1) 

There, with a dove on his grim breast, 

Some Lord of Desmond takes his rest 

Under the usual epitaph, 

Which Time effaced, — lest one should laugh 1 

Here with an ancient upturned face, 
My lady of the same high race, 
Who, in her second century 
Half-way, fell from a cherry tree, 
And ended so her days, sleeps on — 
Not caring that her nose is gone. 

And here, with silence folded deep, 
Above his dark and heavy sleep, 
Lies one, who with his red right hand 
Rained blood-drops on the Holy Land, 
Believing, in his heart, that he 
Did God's sweet will — so, let him be. 

From Norman arch, and oaken chest 
\ATierein seven hundred years were prest. 
Like wrinkled leaves, we turned away, — 
But, when the Sexton was to pay, 
A startled modern voice cried : " Oh, 
Was all that worth a shilling though ?" 



60 IN ST. MARY'S CHURCH. 

Young savage of the woody West, 
And did you leave the eagle's nest, 
The war-dance and the council fire 
And scalping-knifc — may I inquire — 
To value feudal Europe at 
Less thau a shilling ! Think of that ! 



THE IVY OF IRELAND 



THE IVY OF IRELAND. 

Land of Yesterday — and of To-morrow ? 

Whose blossoms breathe the air 
Of Paradise ! Land of mirth and sorrow. 

How sweet this wreath you wear ! 

Ivy of Ireland, clasp the exile's Mother 

(Lo, her deep eyes are wet !) — 
The tears of ages surely shall not smother 

Her faith in something yet. 

In their last look her young men see you, clinging 

To some last, lonely height, 
Waving farewells, while ghostly lips are singing 

Their old world out of sight. 

Then, oh ! the withered women with their wailing 

There at the parting pier ! 
And, oh ! that phantom ship for ever sailing 

With souls belovM here ! 



64 THE IVY OF IRELAND. 

How tenderly your roots ring round the fingers 

(And is there hope in dust ?) 
Of Irish chieftains and of Irish singers, 

Though sword and harp may rust ! 

Mourner at grave and ruin ! A\1iispering warder 

Of every place forlorn ; 
Night-listener at a vanished world's dumb border 

And first to shine with morn ! 

Ivy of Ireland ! had I words to fashion 

Clear as your drops of dew — 
Were I a poet, with a poet's passion, 

I 'd sing a song for you ! 



ONE HAPPY WOMAN 



ONE HAPPY WOMAN. 

The world is wide enough to hold 

One happy woman, she was told. 

The little maid looked up to guess : 

" A bride, in just the loveliest dress ; 

A ship is waiting, too, in sight, 

To sail for " " No, you are not right. 

"The woman you are guessing lies 
To-night in some weird hut. Her eyes 
Are void ; her hollow hands are cold, 
(They have not even a rose to hold). 
A light is dying at her head ; 
And she is happy — being dead." 



«7 



NOTES. 



(1) Page 9. — This piece was published in St. Xicholas, 
the New York Magazine for young folks, for May 1885, the 
following note by the Editor at the time referring to it : — 
"Mrs. Piatt's charming poem, 'In Primrose Time,' which 
appears on page 497 of this number, with its sympathetic 
glimpses of early spring in Ireland, will be appreciated by 
all the older readers of St. Nicholas. It will show, more- 
over, that to all classes in that green island across the sea, 
as also, we hope, to St. Nicholas readers everywhere, the 
sweet yellow flower of the British Isles, that is so welcome 
a spring visitor, means much more than it did to that all too 
practical Mr. Peter Bell in Wordsworth's well-known poem : 

' A primrose by the river's brim 

A yellow primrose was to him. 

And it was nothing more.' 

Mr. J. J. Piatt sends a letter to the Editor, accompanying 
Mrs. Piatt's poem, written from Queenstown, the Irish port 
which all the Atlantic steamers first 'speak' on their east- 
ward-bound trips, and the town to which the verses refer : 
In this he says : ' The leaves of the primrose are soft, some- 
what flannel-like in texture, and of a pale-green colour (they 
resemble mullen leaves in texture and colour) ; the flower 
is of a delicate light yellow. The primrose has always, I 



70 NOTES. 

suppose, been a favourite early spring flower here. One 
day last spring it was used all over Great Britain to com- 
memorate the anniversary of Lord Beaconsfield'a death. I 
saw many ladies and gentlemen wearing it on the streets in 
Cork .upon that day, and it was reported that so great was 
the demand for the flower in London that many orders for 
supplies were sent to France and Belgium.' Mrs. Piatt's 
verses, of course, have no reference to any political senti- 
ment associated with the primrose, but only to the ' era of 
good feeling' it seems to bring in, and the delightful new 
heaven and earth of spring." 

('-) Page 21. — After previously visiting the house of Sir 
Walter Raleigh. Youghal is pronounced very much like 
yawl. 



lEliinliurflb ElnibtrBitR ^prtss: 

T. AND A. CONSTABI E, PRINTERS TO HER MAJESTY 



By the same Author, 

MRS. PIATT'S SELECT POEMS. 

A VOYAGE TO THE FORTUNATE ISLES, 
AND OTHER POEMS. 

By Sarah M. B. Piatt. 

Small Crown 8vo, Cloth, gilt top, ^s. 

Published in the United States by HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & Co. 
Boston and New York, Price $1.50. 



Extracts from British Critical Opinions. 

The Academy, December 5, 1885. 
' The author of these poems and her work are well known on the other side of the 
Atlantic, and two tiny volumes of verse have recently introduced her very favour- 
ably to English readers. The present book contains a rich and excellently selected 
gathering from Mrs. Piatt's various works, issued in America, and it will, un- 
doubtedly, win a warm welcome from the lovers of poetry among us, and e.xtend 
the radius of her influence and reputation. Mrs. Piatt's verses are characterised 
by a distinct and pleasing originality. . . . Nothing more unfailingly distinguishes 
her poems than the solid kernel of fresh, original thought and feeling in each of 
them — thought and feeling which are expressed with careful and conscientious 
artistry. . . . Not a few of the most delicate and successful pieces of the book are 
to be found in the section titled, " In Company with Children." Here the 
womanly nature of the poet has full scope. . . . The temptation to quote further 
from this charming volume is almost irresistible, but we must leave the reader to 
discover the rest of its dainty and pathetic things for himself. The book entitles its 
author to a very honourable place in the roll of women poets of our century.' 

The St. James's Gazette, November 21, 1885. 
'We find that Mrs. Piatt's Muse is the Muse of the American Girl. . . . And we 
confess, for our own part, that the more completely she is the Muse of the American 
Girl the better we like her. There is real originality in such pieces as " If I were 
a Queen," "Caprice at Home," and "After the Quarrel." The reflection on 
Cleopatra — 

" No coward of my conqueror's race 
Should offer me his blood, I know, 

If I were a Queen — " 
is delightfully in the spirit of free Transatlantic criticism. Rhythmically, too, 
Mrs. Piatt is at her best in these lighter pieces. In " Caprice at Home" there is a 
pettishness of movement in the verse corresponding excellently to its mood. Take 
lor example, the lines : — 



" No, I will not say good-bye, 

Not good-bye, nor anything ; " 
or 

" Everything I want I miss. 

Oh, a precious world is this " 

Very arch, too, is " After the Quarrel," where one girl is consoling another for the 
loss of her lover : — 

" But he will not come? — Why, then, 
Is no other within call? 
There are men and men, and men — 

And these men are brothers all 1 
Each sweet fault of his you '11 find 
Just as sweet in all his kind." 

There is so much room in our literature for verse which is playful without being 
exactly humorous, that it is to be hoped Mrs. Piatt will pursue further a vein in 
which she is so eminently successful. We have no wish, however, to disparage the 
more serious efforts of this pleasing and unpretentious writer. Like Miss Ingelow 
and other disciples of the great but unequal poetess of " Casa Guidi Windows," 
Mrs. Piatt's mood alternates between a fantastic regret and a heart-broken idealism. 
She bewails mystically the dead infancies of her growing children, and has dreams 
about them in a glorified perfection. All this is well summed up in the narrative 
poem from which the volume takes its title — the poem which tries to force on us the 
conclusion that 

" We leave the Fortunate Isles behind, 
The Fortunate Isles to find ; " 
and abounds in vaguely suggestive imagery, as of the butterflies 
"That glitter, homesick for the form 
And lost sleep of the worm." 

' In " Two Veils" and " Her Cross and Mine," Mrs. Piatt has touched skilfully on 
the contrast between the world's perils and the safe shelter of the convent. "The 
Altar at Athens" is a rather striking presentation of the enigma of contending 
creeds. " The Gift of Empty Hands " and " Everything " are fables of deft inven- 
tion if trite morality. The lirst stanza of " To-day " is worth quotation for its easy 
rendering of a plaintive mood : — 

" Ah, real thing of bloom and breath, • 

I cannot love you while you stay. 
Put on the dim, still charm of de.-ith. 
Fade to a phantom, float away. 
And let me call you Yesterday ! " 

" Asking for Tears" has something of the accent of" Sonnets from the Portuguese." 
In the more dramatic pieces, like " The Palace-Burner," " There was a Rose," and 
"A Wall Between," these abrupt artifices are less inappropriate. "A Wall 
Between," which presents in some nine pages the scene of a husband coming in 
priest's disguise to the death-bed of his neglected wife, seems to be admirably 
adapted for recitation. Tht writer preserves here, as always, both delicacy and 
taste. The piece is a good one. Hut we recur to our [irelerence of Mrs. Piatt as 
the lyrist of whim, the Muse of the American Girl.' 



The Literary World, January i, 1886. 
'One of the finest poems in the book is "The Brother's Hand," founded upon 
a story of the American Civil War. There is a good deal of power, passion, and 
pathos in it. It is the longest poem in the book, and is marked by much true feeling 
and great narrative skill." 

London Figaro, February 20, 1886. 
' It was high time, though, that acquaintance was made with so charming a 
writer, who, while reminding us of our Jean Ingelow and Adelaide Proctor, has 
indubitable originality — and originality, too, of a very rare kind— of her own. . . . 
In so short a notice it is, indeed, difficult to even name the beauties of her character- 
istic muse. Allusion must be made, however, to her wonderful, and, as it would 
seem, intuitive power of analysing child-nature. Many of her poems deal with 
children, and her happiest and most winsome touches are to be found in them. 
Mrs. Piatt possesses genuine imagination, and, moreover, that dramatic instinct 
which helps so greatly to make a poem intense and vivid. . . . But to multiply 
quotations is impossible, and we must be content with giving the two stanzas with 
which Mrs. Piatt concludes this delightful volume. She says : — 
" Sweet World, if you will hear me now : 
I may not own a sounding Lyre 
And wear my name upon my brow 
Like some great jewel quick with fire. 

But let me, singing, sit apart, 
In tender quiet with a few. 
And keep my fame upon my heart, 
A little blush-rose wet with dew." 
There is the melody of real poetry here.' 

The Saturday Review, March 13, 1886. 
' Of all the concourse of singers, ungallantly described in their own land as 
"female poets," Mrs. Piatt is the most racy and, in a word, the most American. 
Mr. Stedman finds her charming " at her best," and Miss Preston most judiciously 
commends her delightful poems of children. Mr. Howells praises her that ."she 
has not written like a man," and the Boston Repository takes Mr. Howells to task 
for praising " the feminine quality" of Mrs. Piatt's muse. For our part, we are at 
issue with the Repository lady (as we must assume the critic to be), and are touched 
with the felicity of Mr. Howells' remarks. The new selection of Mrs. Piatt's poems 
should be most welcome to all who seek in American poetry something more than a 
pale refie.x of the British commodity. In the goodly company of poetesses, all dight 
in their singing robes, Mrs. Piatt's part is that of the inginue. Her poems, with all 
their whim and inconstancy of mood, are charmingly sincere, artless, piquant, and 
full of quaint surprise. Her pathos is not less individual, though we like her best in 
her "Dramatic Persons and Moods," in such poems as "Sometime," " If I were a 
Queen," "After the Quarrel," " Enchanted," and the like. The reflections of the 
speaker in the second poem in rejecting the example of all historic queens are 
•xquisitely girl-like and natural, even to the rejection of Cleopatra: — 
" Then she of Egypt — with the asp 
To drain my deadly beauty dry ? — 
To see my Roman lover clasp 

His sword with surer love, and die 



Closer to it than me ? Not so. 

No desert-snake with nursing grace 
Should draw my fierce heart's fiercest glow ; 

No coward of my conqueror's race 

Should offer me his blood, I know — 

If I were a Queen." 

'Very startling is the quaint epigram in the first stanza of " Marble or Dust?" : — 

" A child, beside a statue, said to me, 
With pretty wisdom very sadly just, 
'That man is Mr. Lincoln, Mama. He 
Was made of marble ; we are made of dust.' " 

The Nation (Dublin), December 5, 1885. 
'The titular poem in Mrs. Piatt's collection, "A Voyage to the Fortunate Isles," 
is an allegory whose lesson is, that in seeking for distant happiness we miss that 
which is within our grasp. The thought is an old one that has furnished food for 
meditation to the poet and philosopher since the earliest ages. Paradise itself was 
not free from these illusory ambitions. Love of change and desire of power and 
knowledge were what urged our first parents to their great transgression. It is no 
slight praise of Mrs. Piatt's poem, to say that, on a theme coeval with the world, 
and that in every generation has found its exponents among the greatest poets, our 
author has found a new and attractive figure by which to convey the old but ever 
necessary warning against restlessness and discontent. ... In her description 
of children and their ways Mrs. Piatt could not be surpa^.sed for accuracy and 
pathos. With intensified womanly fondness her whole heart goes out to them, as 
she watches their movements with the deep interest of her loving, sympathetic 
nature. . . . We would wish, did the limits of our space permit, to consider 
more at length these extraordinary and, with all their sadness, really beautiful 
poems, as they are well worthy of minute and careful study." 

The Graphic, January 16, 1886. 
' It is amply borne out by the present collected edition of her poems, the music 
and finish of which it is almost superfluous to praise. But, whilst acknowledging 
the author's great gifts, we cannot join in the chorus of unlimited praise which 
seems to be the rule in America. She has been compared to Mrs. Browning, and 
undoubtedly, the influence of the great English poet-woman is most apparent — one 
most powerful piece, " A Wall Between," is almost worthy of the author of " Bertha 
in the Lane." . . . The book is a .striking one . . . and must not be neglected by 
any one who would form a just estimate of modern poetic art.' 

The Scotsman, January i, 1886. 
'There is a fugitive beauty, a magical suggestiveness about her poetry.' 

The Freeman's Journal, February 19, 1886. 
' Her poetry is singularly pretty, tuneful and tender, and many of her pieces, 
especially the descriptive and narrative ones, rise to the highest level.' 



KEGAN PAUL, TRENCH & CO., Publishers, 
I Paiernoster Square, LOiNDON. 



' Quality and not quantity is what we ask for from the poet, and some of the 
loveliest poems in the language are also among the briefest. Here are two tiny 
volumes that deserve a word of praise from the critic and recognition frojn the 
public.' — London Illustrated News, June 20, 1885. 

AN IRISH GARLAND. By Sarah M. B. Piatt. 

Small Crown Svo. Cloth y. 6d. 

Published in the United States by HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & Co. 
Boston and New York, Price $1.00. 

The Scotsman, December 26, 1884. 
' There is a peculiar charm in the short poem entitled " In Clonmel Parish Church- 
yard," and another poem, "The Confession of My Neighbour," gives us one of 
those quick instinctive glimpses into a woman's heart which is apt to escape man's 
grosser vision.' 

The Academy, March 21, 1885. 
'This is a charming little book, and we could wish it were much longer. Rarely, 
indeed, has so much thought and feeling been put into verse of the secondary order 
with more flow and felicity of diction. . . . We can sincerely recommend Mrs. 
Piatt's pretty, thoughtful, and tuneful volume.' 

The Graphic, July 11, 1885. 
' Pathos distinguishes the best pieces, such as, " On the Pier at Queenstown," 
and "The Confession of My Neighbour," but there is a vein of quaint humour in 
places, as in a charming little childlike poem, " Comfort through a Window."' 
The Saturday Review, July n, 1885. 
' Mrs. Piatt's slender volume risks overlooking by its mere slightness. It con- 
tains one poem, "The Gift of Tears," which for deep-hearted suggestiveness and 
concentrated pathos might have proceeded from Mrs. Browning. The kinship we 
claim for it is no light thing, and it is not lightly claimed.' 

The Pilot (Boston, U.S.A.), April 18, 1885. 
'Ought to endear her to every Irish Heart.' 



THE CHILDREN OUT-OF-DOORS. 

A BOOK OF VERSES. By Two in One House. 

Small Crown Svo. Cloth, y. 6d. 

Published in the United States bv ROBERT CLARKE & CO., Cincinnati, 

Price $1.25. 



The Atlantic Monthly (Boston), April 1885. 
' The authors of the charming book of verse called "The Children Out-of-Doors" 
are, of course, Mr. and Mrs. Piatt. Though their names do not appear on the title- 
page, their work is too characteristic to pass unrecognised.' 



DAVID DOUGLAS, Publisher, 
15 Castle Street, Edinburgh. 



LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 

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